


The wise man steers

by strawberriesandtophats



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternative Universes Theories, Caretaking, Depression, HEA, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Self-Acceptance, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 12:18:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17022492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriesandtophats/pseuds/strawberriesandtophats
Summary: It started with the soot-dusted but still intact Sorting machine in the Post Office basement making worrisome whirring sounds before spitting out a handful of letters around dawn on a cold Octeday in December. Properly addressed ones too, with undoubtedly official stamps.They had been sealed closed in black ink with a deep-set V.And they were all addressed to Commander Vimes.In which Vimes is sent love letters from an alternative world where he's been in a romantic relationship with Lord Vetinari for years, forcing him to confront his own largely-ignored feelings for his lordship.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theCopperCow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theCopperCow/gifts).



> The idea for this fic has been stuck in my head for around four years. It will update weekly, on Sundays.

It started with the soot-dusted but still intact Sorting machine in the Post Office basement making worrisome whirring sounds before spitting out a handful of letters around dawn on a cold Octeday in December. Properly addressed ones too, with undoubtedly official stamps.

They had been sealed closed in black ink with a deep-set V.

And they were all addressed to Commander Vimes.

Moist Von Lipwig, Postmaster General, stared at the envelopes for a long while. Some of them were tiny, seemingly carrying clacks messages and others were large and stuffed with paper. A few had bloody fingerprints, others had been rained on.

He could have hidden them away or ‘accidentally’ spilled tea on them so that they would have become unreadable.

He could have left them there.

Instead he stuffed them in his bag, nodding at the alarmed postal workers who had clustered around the machine when it had started acting up. Had they not been there, he’d taken a little peak inside before closing the envelope with the expert touch of the con.

“Might be from the future, sir,” Groat said, eyeing the machine. “Or someplace else. His lordship’s hair doesn’t look this grey on our stamps.”

The others nodded, glancing at the bag as if it would explode at any given moment. They hadn’t dared to get rid of the machine, in case it would revert to its destructive ways. It had been silent until today.

“Our job is to deliver the post, not speculate on how it got here,” Lipwig said, patting the bag and walking in a measured manner out of the door. Then he bolted to Pseudopolis Yard, his instincts to avoid police officers at all costs screaming bloody murder at him.

The Patrician would find out if he didn’t deliver those letters, damn him. And he wouldn’t be happy that they were _his_ letters. Better to just dump them at that grubby looking Watch house than have to explain this sort of thing to his lordship.

So, he handed the letters to Captain Angua, who looked at him like she wanted to handcuff him and throw him in the cells for just showing up at her workplace, no matter that he had not thrown an aniseed bomb on the street to cover his tracks for months now…

He turned on his heel and left the station, glad to be done with this task. It was probably nothing important, just some messages to come to the Palace for a meeting or two and perhaps some paperwork.

Nothing he had to worry about, anyway.

To celebrate he nabbed an orange from a grocer’s cart on his way back to work.

 

 

Hurrying to the Patrician’s Palace first thing in the morning was such a routine thing, that Vimes had just torn open the familiar letter from his lordship that had been in the bag on his desk, glanced at the usual message to come to the office and finished his coffee before heading out.

If the envelope had looked crumpled, that was just the Post Office being careless with it.

Vimes strode through the streets, habitually looking around for crimes. But it was so early that only bakers and licensed thieves and other police officers were out and about. It was so cold that he could see his breath in the air.

Why did the Patrician have to wake up so early?

Vimes hadn’t even gone to sleep yet. By this point he was held together by police instincts and coffee. Maybe that leftover slice of cake that had been all alone in the Watch kitchen also had its part to play.

He sat down in the antechamber and breathed out. There was no sight of any clerks, only the sounds of maids cleaning the floors and humming show tunes. Drumknott had not yet arrived at work, or was still downstairs in the kitchens eating breakfast.

And then he waited, that infernal clock on the wall trying its best to turn his brain into porridge. This was the sort of time he should be spending doing something productive, like reading those romance novels Inspector Pessimal read on his breaks, making sure to always bookmark where he’d left off.

And waited.

Until he felt the need to break down the door to the office.

Instead he opened it to find that Lord Vetinari was not inside. Vimes stared at the empty seat, then he dug around in his pockets until he found the slip of paper asking for his presence. His heartbeat was loud in his ears.

Had it just been an old letter, forgotten among the heaps of paper on his desk?

No, Angua had told him that the bag of letters on his desk had arrived earlier this morning. This letter had been the first one he’d grabbed, seeing the black ink and familiar V.

Had the letter been delivered too late?

Was _he_ too late?

Would the Patrician be somewhere in this huge place, lying in a pool of blood cos of some damn attempt on his life?

Vimes ran until he saw Drumknott carrying a kettle towards the Rats Chamber. He was ushered inside by an alarmed Drumknott.

 “Morning, Commander,” Lord Vetinari said, eyebrow raised.

Vimes saluted, waiting for a line about his tardiness or his shortness of breath.

But Vetinari was silent.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” Vimes asked, crumpled envelope in one hand.

“As much as I appreciate your years of service to the city, Commander, your expertise is not needed in this instance,” Lord Vetinari said, looking up from what he had been doing, which appeared to be pouring over a large map of the city with a whole host of engineers, masons and carpenters.

And Moist von Lipwig, standing there in his golden suit.

“Sir,” Vimes said, attempting to mentally stomp on the sinking feeling in his chest to make it go away. It didn’t work.

The map of the Undertaking was huge, filled with promises of new streets and a sewage system and even shops. Many of his officers were exited about it, talking of new streets to patrol and new sights to see. Some said that they’d heard that there was going to be a city-wide train station down there one day.

Would they need more lanterns in such an environment?

More officers?

An underground station?

Perhaps, he did not need to be consulted about such matters.

“Do not let me detain you,” Lord Vetinari said, nodding at him.

Vimes saluted again and turned on his heel, crushing the feeling that he’d been dismissed like a servant that was no longer of use. He lit a cigar as he walked, thinking of dark tunnels and train tracks.

He looked at the crumped letter in his hand and thought of the bag it had come in. Better to ask where exactly it had come from. After all, the letter was a bit yellowish and perhaps that meant that it was indeed old and therefore perhaps very late.

Stepping inside the Post Office was always a strange thing, since the gleaming wood and endless envelopes always made him feel just as poor as he’d been when he’d first tiptoed inside as a young Constable to send a letter to his mates who’d left the Watch to move abroad to more forgiving cities. Ones that didn’t hunt you down for being caught kissing your boyfriend in the station’s locker room.  
Stubbing out his cigar on one of those thoughtfully provided ashtrays, Vimes headed to the nearest desk.

“We thought you’d be here, sir,” Groat said, with the nod of those who were waiting for the inevitable. “Come with me.”

There had been more letters in that bag. Had all those letters been delayed at the Post Office for a long time?

The letter in his pocket felt white hot as he climbed down the stairs to the cellars, where Groat stopped in front of a huge glowing machine that dominated the room.

“This machine is Post Office property?” Vimes asked, careful not to step too close.

“Yes,” Groat said. “We thought it’d stopped working, sir. But then it started making these dreadful noises.”

“Hm,” Vimes said.

“Had a wizard look at it since it spit out those letters this morning,” Groat said, also keeping his distance from the machine. “He says they were probably from alternative Disc, if anything. Stamps hadn’t changed much, we’d told him and Vetinari was still sending you his letters, so it ain’t the future-“

“So those letters aren’t forged, then,” Vimes said.

“Nah, sir,” Groat said. “Sometimes it would deliver stuff that hadn’t been written yet, or someone’d meant to write but never did-“

“If any more letters come out of that thing, deliver them to me,” Vimes said, swallowing.

He went back to Pseaudopolis Yard and closed the door to his office before upending the bag. He selected a letter, one that looked rained on and yellowed.

It was, unmistakably, a love letter.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The letter had been one of casual and open affection of those who had been a couple for a number of years. The next two Vimes had opened had been longer, affirming that this version of him had been married to Lord Vetinari for many years. Good years.

It was strange to see such things openly admitted and in Lord Vetinari’s handwriting. But that was just proof that somewhere, they were not afflicted with what Sybil called ‘emotional constipation at a chronic level.’

Vimes had allowed himself to enjoy some of the letters, to know in his bones that there was in fact a world where Lord Vetinari did love him back, openly and without hesitation. It was as if the letters had opened a long-hidden chest in his mind, one that he had locked and shoved away in hopes of not remembering or caring about its contents. The box contained the vivid memories of every smile and every compliment the Patrician had ever bestowed upon him, every brush of Vetinari’s fingers against his arm or shoulders, every gift and flirtatious remark.

It was good to know that somewhere out there, they were happy and in love. It was evidence that somewhere, they did work out. Like lighting a candle, knowing that there was more darkness to come. Still, he could enjoy the light for now.

But that was this world, and this one was his, where Lord Vetinari did not love him back. This was the world where dwelling on his crush on Vetinari was simply a stupid thing to do, because it would not change anything at all.

He’d closed them, carefully putting them back into the bag and put the bag itself in one of the drawers in his desk. Weeks had passed and he’d left it there, to be forgotten. Instead of reading the rest of the letters, Vimes had invested in lots of filing cabinets to organize the heaps of paper on his floor. It would mean that the likelihood of Vetinari habitually making some remark about him not finding his papers wouldn’t be a bi-weekly thing, if he could keep this up.

It also meant that he spent most his waking hours reading old case notes the Gooseberry had dug out and listening to a very pleased Inspector Pessimal talk about just how much more effacement finding everything they needed would be when they’d finished filing it all.

Still, he found himself cupping that little candle he’d lit by opening those letters, for a little comfort when the nights seemed too long.

 

The meetings in the Oblong Office had remained much the same after Vimes had received the letters. Their city was doing well.

Vimes was silent, watching the faces of the other people standing beside him in the Oblong Office after Lipwig had made some joke that Vimes had not bothered to listen to, too focused on not arresting the man on sight.

He was useful to the city, Vimes knew that. And Vetinari would make sure that he continued to do so. And yet, watching Lipwig being his charming self, using people skills Vimes knew he’d never have and amusing everyone with his jokes kept Vimes’s spirits low and sinking by the minute.

He knew he was being an idiot.

But had he ever been anything else?

Lord Vetinari turned, stalking over to the window to hide his smile. Ice spread through Vimes’s veins, numbing his fingers and leaving his heart a solid heavy clump in his chest. He kept breathing and his eyes on Lord Vetinari as he talked, as his insides grew cold and old scars ached.

If this had been a game of some sort between them, he had lost.

Maybe years ago.

After all, the Patrician was an island to himself. He had to be. Former Patricians had all taken advantage of their staff, the same as the kings had.

None of the maids were afraid of him, nor the cooks or bakers or guards. He paid them good money to work, they got bonuses and perks and never had to worry about him making any advances due to his station.

But that also meant that there were just some things that would not happen between them. And besides, it had been months since Lord Vetinari had made any kind of flirtatious comment or an innuendo in their private meetings.

Perhaps that was for the best.

There was no use holding on to hope for something like this. No matter how many rewards and titles and such Vetinari had heaped on him. No matter how the man had the tendency to treat him as if he was something precious and useful, to be treasured. No matter if there had been times Vetinari had looked at him as Vimes was a steak and Vetinari was ravenous.

Vimes blinked, surprised that the water in his eyes had not turned solid yet. Moist von Lipwig was still smiling, fiddling with the lapels on his stylish gold suit. His heartbeat was too loud in his ears to hear much of anything, his mind was cloudy with worry so that whatever words were being spoken could not be understood.

 He waited until the Patrician made the familiar movements that indicated dismissal, standing up and saluting before he could be hooked into a private meeting. He ignored the Heads of the Guilds making surprised or scoffing noises as he walked past them. He didn’t stop walking until he was halfway back to Pseudopolis Yard.

It would have been just as bad to have stayed too long in that room, waiting to be alone with his lordship. Better to leave too soon, to let everyone assume he was as rude as they thought he was.

There would be a message from his lordship later, short and to the point.

Better to leave before he’d embarrass himself any further than he already had.

The new filing cabinets had arrived and Inspector Pessimal had begun filing, whistling softly underneath his breath as Gooseberry threw papers in the air. Vimes joined them, plunging his hand in a box of paperclips before heaping together a bunch of yellowing pages containing the report on a murder they had solved five years ago.

A group of filing cabinets dedicated to criminal files on past cases. Another set of cabinets for ‘police officer’s personal files (rank, years served, crimes solved and assignments completed, pay, cocoa preference) and various other paperwork such as police paperwork such as reports.  And in the corner, there was yet another set of cabinets for miscellaneous paperwork that crossed his desk, messages from guilds and bills to fix up Watch Houses and stock up on whatever was needed, down to spoons and mugs and dartboards.

Then there was the single deep red filing cabinet among the sea of grey ones, which housed all of Vetinari’s messages, letters and such that he’d sent Vimes over the years.

The floor was cleared in five hours of steady work, with some of the officers chipping in when they saw what Vimes and Pessimal were up to. Gradually, with every piece of paper filed away, the ice had thawed until Vimes felt like himself again.

“Must be a change to be able to walk on floorboard again instead of paper, Commander,” Pessimal said, closing a filing cabinet with a thud.

“Yeah,” Vimes said, looking around the room. “Thank you for the assistance, Inspector.”

“My pleasure,” Pessimal said, indeed looking pleased. He patted Vimes on the shoulder, looking at the filing cabinets as if they were masterpieces. Perhaps they were. Vimes didn’t know anything about the finer points of stationery and filing boxes and binders as Pessimal and Drumknott delighted in.

Vimes nodded at Pessimal, with his shiny breastplate and steady eyes. Then Pessimal saluted and headed downstairs.

Vimes breathed out.

His desk was still a mess, but that could be dealt with tomorrow.

Vimes stomped downstairs to the kitchen, where he poured himself a cup of strong tea with enough sugar to make it almost unbearably sweet. His officers were clustered around a bowl of treacle treats that Colon had brought to work, since one of his kids had just opened a small sweet shop. He popped one in his mouth, savoring the taste before heading back to his office.

When he’d put his tea down on top of a letter of complaint from The Assasin’s Guild about an Assassin slipping on the roof of the Treacle Mine Road Watch House and falling on top of a on-the-job licensed Thief, he dug out the sack of letters that Lipwig had left and took the crumpled one with the bloodied fingerprints. The rest of them could wait.

Better to get this over with.

_Dear Commander Vimes,_

_We regret to inform you of Lord Havelock Vetinari’s disappearance in the vast forests Uberwald. Searches have continued for three days, to no avail. All available officers and volunteers have been a part of the search itself to locate his lordship. As far as we know from speaking to his aunt, whom he was visiting, he was going for a walk._

_Blood has been found at the scene where he is thought of having disappeared, along with his cane._

_It is too early to say, but until further notice, we will assume that he is still alive._

_We would appreciate any help you can give._

_Sincerely,_

_Captain Sally_

Vimes breathed through his teeth. He fumbled with his matches before lighting his cigar. Ripping open the next envelope (tiny, clearly containing a clacks message and covered in dried blood) was easier than just…burning the rest of the letters and locking all memories of them away.

 

_Dear Commander Vimes,_

_We are sorry for your loss._

The stars had gone out, the sky a merciless black abyss.

The ground disappeared underneath his feet.

The city was no longer all around him.

He was alone in the darkness.

 

Vimes breathed, wobbly and loud in the silent room.

 

This was not how it was supposed to go. Wasn’t that true, in all worlds?

That he was never supposed to outlive Vetinari?

That had been the unspoken deal that they’d made?

That the guard died before the one he was supposed to protect?

Vetinari was supposed to stay in the city for a long, long time. Until all the dreams they’d ever dared to dream about how it should be were solid things. From clean streets with a proper sewage system to good pie shops.

Please.

He wiped the worst of the snot and tears off his face with his sleeve, eyes still closed. Only a month ago he’d returned to the city from a trip to Quirm that he’d taken because he’d been chasing a jewelry thief over the border. And he’d been so damn relieved to be back to report to Vetinari, seeing the glint of approval in his eyes when he’d welcomed Vimes home and congratulated him on a job well done. Professional things. But still, for him, good things.

To think that the other Vimes would never have that again…

“Sir?” Nobby asked from the doorway, not having bothered to knock. His voice was small, smaller than it had been when they’d stood at the barricade together, all those years ago. “The Palace sent a message asking for you to attend a meeting about the future of the city-“

Nobby edged closer, dropping an envelope on the desk. The message from Lord Vetinari was short and concise. And to an exhausted and unslept Vimes, brutal. Five years ago, hell, fifteen years ago, he wouldn’t even have blinked.

Lord Vetinari was just being his professional and habitually aloof self.

But the letters he’d read had crowbarred a part of him wide open and he couldn’t look at that infuriatingly empty expression tonight.

Later, when he’d caught his breath.

Later, when he could pretend that this years-long crush was nothing but a fleeting thing and not like a love at all.

“Send Angua instead,” Vimes managed, raising his chin and glancing at Nobby’s sad face. “I’m not-“

“Okay,” Nobby said, nodding. “Okay.”

The door closed.

It didn’t matter. There was no use talking with him about the future of the city. His liver was done for, his lungs were wrecked with smoke and his heart was probably a mess too. Vimes slumped in his seat, his limbs numb.

Vimes closed his eyes again.

When he came back to himself, wiping his wet face and his heart loud in his ears, his tea had gone cold.

The Watch house had continued bustling on without him. As had the city and the Disc.

Angua would make a very fine Commander.

And well, Vetinari had other things to focus on and think about than him. There hadn’t been a hint of flirtation in their meetings in months now, no matter how many criminals he had caught and how much he’d tried to be on his best behavior by not actively aggravating aristocrats and politicians. Not that he was sure that it had worked, since his very existence probably made some want him gone.

Perhaps Vetinari had simply grown bored of him after all these years.

Vimes stood up and headed to the bathroom, leaving his cold tea behind. Water ran over his still-shaking, horrible hands. Wonky and scarred from so many bones being broken over the years and sweaty from his earlier episode. He didn’t bother to turn the faucet so that the water would turn hot, or even warm. Scrubbing his face with the icy washcloth, Vimes breathed in the damp air until his legs felt steady again.

Lipwig was young, smart and charming in a way that he never had been. That rascal could get anyone to listen to him, anyone to grin at his curly attitude and big dreams. Vimes was an aging copper with anger issues and aching knees.

Vimes didn’t want to know what his officers saw in his face when he came downstairs and headed to the kitchen with his cold tea in hand.

It was late.

Around this time, in the old Watch, Snouty would have started making the cocoa. Especially in wintertime.

Vimes dug out the dusty jars of cocoa powder from way back in the cupboards, as well as the huge dented metal pot. Then he poured in the contents of the jars, alongside the cocoa. The movements were automatic, reaching for a cold cup of coffee to dump into the cocoa-mix while he stirred with the long wooden spoon. He’d done this a thousand times as a Lance-Constable. The youngest members of the Watch had a strange tendency to refer to that rank as ‘baby police officer’ instead of the actual official term. Slang always changed, he supposed.

His breathing was easier the more he stirred, breathing in the familiar scent of cheap stuff made to taste more than passable.

“I took the change jar to the shop to get the good kind,” Nobby said, appearing by his elbow with eight bars of chocolate and a hopeful smile.

“Thanks,” Vimes said, looking at the sort of chocolate he’d spent years dreaming of eating back when he’d been a Constable. “Could you chop it down for me before it goes into the pot?”

“Sure,” Nobby said, tearing the wrapper.

Soon Pseudopolis Yard was filled with the scent of cocoa and Detritus was making the troll equivalent. Officers from other station kept appearing in the kitchen doorway with hopeful expressions and as many cups as they could carry.

Eventually Vimes sat down with his own mug of cocoa in the cafeteria savoring the taste. His officers joined him and Vimes listened to them chat about their day until he’d finished his drink. Then he went on patrol.

At least he could still do that.


	3. Chapter 3

“Corporal Nobbs and Sergeant Colon are here to see you, your lordship,” Drumknott said, putting the cup of coffee down on the desk. The sun had disappeared below the horizon as if it had a grudge and had no intention of climbing all the way up towards the sky tomorrow morning. The moon shone as brightly as it had ever done as the fog rose.

“Indeed?” Lord Vetinari said, folding the evening edition of the times and taking a sip of his coffee.

“They look very solemn, sir,” Drumknott said, frowning.

Corporal Nobbs and Sergeant Colon didn’t look scared, which meant that they had in fact not noticed any kind of terrible threat (such as a gold-hoarding dragon) to the city. Instead they looked cleaned-up and dusted off, no mud on their boots and no cigarette behind Nobby’s ear. Even their armor gleamed.

In short, they looked like they were going to a funeral.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Lord Vetinari said.

“Sir,” Colon and Nobby said, saluting.

“To what may I owe the pleasure?” Lord Vetinari asked, when neither of the policemen made any move to come any closer.

“We just thought it would be proper to let you know, since you are the boss…” Colon said, fidgeting. “That Commander Vimes has been…really upset, lately.”

“Not angry,” Nobby said quickly, before Vetinari could ask about police brutality or staff mistreatment. “He’s just really sad.”

“Well, Lady Sybil and Young Sam have been out of town for some time,” Lord Vetinari said. “It is understandable that their absence would cause such a reaction.”

“They’ve left on trips before and he’s never been like this,” Colon said, with the expression of a man in a burning building and dwindling water resources. “This is worse.”

Nobby nodded.

 “Perhaps you’ll speak to him, sir?” Colon said, clearly scraping away at his well of courage, willing himself to find more.

They didn’t ask if he’d been fighting with Vimes, or if they were not on speaking terms. Instead they looked at him as if he was the answer to all their prayers.

“Certainly,” Lord Vetinari said, watching as Nobby’s and Colon’s shoulders visibly relaxed. “And now I believe we must all get on with our work.”

“Yes, sir,” Colon said, saluting.

Nobby followed his example.

A few minutes later they were both heading back towards Treacle Mine Road. Lord Vetinari watched them from the window, before looking back at his spotless desk. Then he made a decision.

 

 

It was a relief to be on patrol. He didn’t manage to do much of it these days, unless he’d sneaked out like this. And even then, he often saw that some of his officers had hurried to their posts when they saw him slip out the door.

The fog had swallowed the city, leaving every lamp post a halo of blurry light and everything else was a mystery, if one that was only a few steps away.

His clothes were soaked and his feet steered themselves to a familiar beat. Shoulders relaxed and breathing easier, Vimes felt something in him settle. It was only a matter of time until he was chasing a thief at top speed through the alleyways as bakers and teachers jumped out of the way.

“Constable Maurice!” Vimes called, on pure instinct when he recognized a familiar face, when the thief ran towards a gangly man emerging from the Musician’s Guild gates. “Grab that thief!”

“Sir!” Maurice said, launching himself at the thief.

But the thief slipped past them both and right into a tall man who had been stepping out of a carriage.

“Sergeant Jacobs!” Maurice shouted, when the man immediately tackled the thief to the ground.

“Sorry about this,” Vimes said, after he’d handcuffed the thief and Fred and Nobby had emerged from the fog and dragged the thief to the nearest station. “I know that you aren’t policemen anymore, but I recognized you and-“

“No worries, sir,” Jacobs said, lighting a cigarette and glancing at Maurice, who appeared to be preoccupied with making sure he still had his clarinet case. “I’ve just come back to the city, seeing as it’s more tolerant now with your lord in charge.”

“It’s been a long time,” Maurice said, a Quirmian tilt to his voice that hadn’t been there forty years ago. The flicker of light in his eyes had changed into a blinding sunrise as he watched Jacobs smoking leisurely. “Far too long.”

“And I still owe you that coffee,” Jacobs told Maurice, smiling as he dropped the cigarette to the ground and stomped on it. “There’s bound to be a table for us somewhere at this time of night.”

“Lots to catch up on,” Maurice said, saluting. “It was nice to see you again, Commander Vimes.”

“Thank you for the help,” Vimes said as the two men edged towards each other and finally Maurice took Jacobs’s arm as gently as if he was handling a spooked horse.

Vimes hadn’t taken more than a few steps towards the pie stand when there was a movement at the very edge of his vision.

“Ah, Vimes,” said a familiar voice.

Lord Vetinari was standing on the corner with a brown paper bag in hand, on which was a drawing of a pie. In the light of the streetlamp above them, the Patrician looked like something out of a dream, wrapped up in a stylish scarf.

“Sir?” Vimes asked, staring. When had been the last time he’d seen the Patrician out and about like this instead of being in his carriage or attending a specific event?

A part of him wanted to drag the man out of the open, to safety. No matter that the man was a bloody assassin and moved like a snake.

Instead Vimes shook his head, glancing around to see if anyone was watching them. Everyone in the street was doing so. Great.

The Patrician looked at ease in his fine greatcoat and good boots. Vimes was glad he wasn’t wearing plumes, even though there was no reason why he would be doing so in the middle of the night anyway. He looked down at his battered armor and thin-soled boots.

“What a beautiful night in our fine city,” Lord Vetinari said, limping towards him. “I seem to have forgotten my cane. Do you mind if I join you?”

There was indeed no cane in sight. The Patrician’s face looked even paler than it had just earlier today.

“Sure,” Vimes said. Then he offered Lord Vetinari to take his arm. “There is some cocoa down at the station if you want some.”

“That sounds ideal,” Lord Vetinari said, taking his arm.

The bag rustled as they walked, making the air smell like toasted cheese and caramelized onions.

Having the man fall down in the street on a dark night because his leg collapsed underneath him was not something Vimes wanted to be the cause of. Vimes glanced at his lordship, but the Patrician appeared to be content to just spend time with him in silence.

It was gratifying to see all crime and most activity in the street stop as they passed by. Lord Vetinari’s long fingers pressed to his bicep, leaning on him for support.

Would two men have been able to do that, all those years ago?

In the middle of the night?

Thieves and Assassins, maybe.

But not civilians, really.

Things had changed during Vetinari’s rule. Most of the young Constables had never truly learned to be afraid of the undercurrent of danger running through the city’s veins. Having grown up with a sizable Watch around the place, a booming economy and the Guilds being regulated and doing well, they never had to be terrified of the darkness.

What ice there had been left paralyzing Vimes’s mind and body mellowed even further as the Patrician told him about how better access to fresh produce meant that pie shops like the he’d just visited where popping up everywhere like flowers, sending paperwork to the palace for permits and ads for employees and buying ingredients from farmers and grocers and furniture from shops…

They made it to Pseudopolis Yard, still arm-in-arm.

It was quite a sight to see all his officers do a double take when they saw them and then immediately pretend to be doing something else.

“Good to see that this kettle is still in use,” Lord Vetinari said as Vimes ladled cocoa into two mugs, pointing at the now-dented kettle they’d got when they’d saved the city from the dragon.

“Next time a dragon comes to our city we’ll know what to do,” Vimes said, stirring.

“How comforting to hear,” Vetinari said, cutting the cheese-and-onion pie in half and putting them on a plate. “I’ll give you another kettle and a dartboard as a reward.”

“I’m sure that everyone will be pleased to get those,” Vimes said, carrying the mugs upstairs to his office. Better that the Patrician could hold onto the rail for support than to have cocoa splash onto the floor.

It was easy to sit down on the worn couch in his office, which he’d got to replace the mattress he’d slept on when he had to stay the night. It was better for his back and could be piled with pillows.

Lord Vetinari looked pleased, sipping his cocoa.

Vimes had already devoured his half of the pie and was now working on not burning the roof of his mouth by drinking the scalding cocoa as well. His overcoat and Vimes’s jacket were dripping on the floor downstairs and he’d turned on the new central heating system.

“Why is there coffee in this, Vimes?” Vetinari asked, inspecting the mug. “I thought you said this was just plain cocoa?”

“It’s there so we remain alert and don’t die or fall asleep at our posts,” Vimes answered as the Patrician finished his half of the pie, wiping the remains of the crust off his fingers with a handkerchief.

“Of course it is,” Lord Vetinari said, putting his arm around Vimes’s shoulders in a companionable manner.

Vimes stilled, glancing at his lordship, who just continued drinking his cocoa and looking around the room at all the filing cabinets.

“The red one has your letters and things in it,” Vimes said, leaning into the touch as carefully as he could. Who knew that the Patrician’s robes were that soft?

“I won’t worry that you don’t get my letters, then,” Vetinari said. “Had you misplaced the one that you had earlier about coming to the palace?”

“There was an issue at the Post Office,” Vimes said, because that was not a lie. “Got the wrong bag of letters.”

“Did you give it back?” Vetinari asked.

“No,” Vimes admitted. “They were all addressed to me, so I kept them. Not from this timeline, they told me.”

“Ah,” Vetinari said, his hand a warm weight on Vimes’s shoulder. “I see how that might be upsetting.”

Vimes was silent for a long while.

His Vetinari was alive and beside him, holding onto a cup of cocoa. He wasn’t dead in the forests of Uberwald.

 

Vimes woke up hours later with a blanket covering him and a pillow underneath his head. The mugs were on his desk, no longer steaming.

On top of the red filing cabinet was a note from Vetinari, thanking him for the hospitality and the cocoa.


	4. Chapter 4

Here was the worst thing about parallel worlds that were only a breath away: sometimes you could _see_ how things might have been, had you just…taken a different turn.

Glimpses, mostly.

The city could have been so different. It could have become a filthy, crumbling mess of stone and ashes. Instead The Times was delivered to his desk fresh off the printers every morning, bread and buns were baked all around the clock and even the sewers were being cleaned up. Moving pictures and new stamps were being made all the time. There was a hospital and watch houses and good schools.

“What’s love ever given him?” Mr Potts of the Baker’s Guild had once grumbled, after there had been a row with current the Merchant’s Guild about baked goods in shops, which Vetinari had listened to and commented that ‘love’ was not an ingredient that could be measured and therefore should not be considered an essential part of his cakes.

As if he didn’t see their city.

As if he didn’t know how bad things could have been, had someone else become Patrician.

The city worked. And when it did not, he had others that looked out for it too. Cooks and teachers and engineers and lawyers and grocers were all willing to come to the Palace and tell him if they thought something was amiss or threatening their city.

How far they’d come, indeed.

If the light was just right, he could see that somewhere else, Drumknott wore waistcoats in other colors than muted browns and greys. Forest green and light blue and once a splash of lavender. His wire-rimmed glasses never changed much, nor did his filing habits.

Sometimes he saw Wuffles curled up in a corner of his office, if only for a split second when he’d hurry across the room.

The meeting was almost over. Vetinari had spent most of it sitting behind his desk, watching the engineers grumble and the master carpenters and masons making humming noises while Moist von Lipwig looked impatient and Sarcharissa wrote like this was the scoop of the century.

Right now, the color of Lipwig’s golden suit faded to a shabby grey dotted with red for a split second as he made a point about needing his postmen to be able to walk the streets that would one day be below the city. And when Sarcharissa from the Times flicked her wrist as she wrote down her notes, curls falling from her neat bun, the bags underneath her eyes that he’d just glimpsed were simply gone.

And then there was the Commander, waiting outside the office.

There were two wedding rings on his hands sometimes, when he was making angry gestures about criminals loose in the city, or drinking early morning coffee. And the second ring matched the one that Vetinari had seen on his own ring finger too many times to be able to rule it out as a hallucination due to exhaustion.

It was a terrible to thing to know, when sleep would not come, that there was a world where you had an agreement like that and it was not this one.

Well, Sybil had made it very clear that she would fine with such an arrangement. And that she’d told Vimes that too, on multiple occasions.

But Vimes appeared to just…not notice things that weren’t related to police business or a threat to his life. His response to most of the gifts Vetinari had given him (well the ones that were not intended to annoy him) had been suspicion or bafflement.

Overt flirting and innuendoes stopped him in his tracks or turned his neck and ears bright red. And on some days, he’d fumble through a shaky but positive response to said flirting. And he did accept the little gifts. Coffee and biscuits and a ready shaving kit in the early mornings when he’d hurry to the Palace after the night shift.

Vimes appeared to understand Vetinari spending time with him as a gesture of affection, knowing how busy he was and how much of it he spent working.

That too, was a gift.

Never before had Vimes allowed him to stay so close as he had on that night when they’d walked through the city, arm in arm. Vetinari hadn’t missed the admiration in Vimes’s voice as they’d talked about how the city had become more inclusive and accepting, in ways that Vimes had never truly dared to believe would happen. Certainly Ankh-Morpork had hundreds of marriage laws, all over the place, meaning that people had always married whoever they liked if they’d found someone with the right credentials to do a proper ceremony.

But most of them had done it quietly, secretly, or privately.

A significant portion had not asked anyone for permission and considered themselves married to their partner or partners no matter what anyone said about it. And others had simply left, to come back now when things were better. Safer.

And now Vimes was reading a romance novel while he waited, humming a tune underneath his breath. He wouldn’t have felt safe enough to do such a thing just a few weeks ago.

Perhaps that was a gift, too.

Still, the man was making sounds like a malfunctioning kettle. Better check if he was doing well after this meeting was over. Or at least not dying because he’d experienced emotional overload of a kind that didn’t include an avalanche of rage powering his body.


	5. Chapter 5

Life was so much easier with a tidy office. When the papers piled up, Vimes was able to sit down for twenty minutes and get rid of the gist of it, at least sorting them. Not having piles and piles of paper on the floor was a relief. Finding a criminal’s file was not a problem and signing the pay checks early this month (in addition to buying more cocoa supplies and having the showers fixed) caused his officers to present him with a newly published book on Old Stoneface.

Most of it had been dry facts, interspaced with letters written by the old Commander to his officers and the king’s main advisor.

That had been when things got interesting. Vimes had brought the book with him to the anteroom to the Oblong Office, so that he could use his time wisely instead of having his mind turned to mush by the damn clock.

The naval romance novels Pessimal left around the locker room and Vimes had bought and hidden in his desk had not been nearly this intense, at least so far. But the thread was largely the same: a shared life, no matter the danger.

The king’s advisor had been a piece of work, alright, but he’d been an intensely clever and ruthless man with a very fine sense of style. So much black silk, his mind had supplied when he’d seen the drawings. Layers and layers of it…

And they’d argued all day long, but the old Commander spoke of him with the sort of devotion and loyalty that made Vimes wonder about the descriptions of the two men habitually staying close to each other and scheming.

And then there were the descriptions of careful touches…

 

“Commander Vimes?” Drumknott asked. “Are you alright?”

“What?” Vimes asked, slamming the book closed. His neck was probably blotchy by now, having forgotten the world around him as he’d read about layers of silk brushing against the stone floor and the thud of a helmet as it was dropped in haste during a very passionate argument that included the advisor shoving the Commander to the floor and stepping on his chest-

“I’ve called you a few times already but you didn’t answer,” Drumknott said. “Oh, you must have been absorbed in your book. His lordship will be ready to see you in a few minutes.”

Vimes looked down at the cover, which depicted Old Stoneface and the king’s advisor standing side by side, framed by the Patrician’s Palace in the background.

“Er, yes,” Vimes managed, stuffing the book into his bag, where he also kept his new knitting supplies. He’d grown so used to waiting that taking up knitting meant that at least he was doing something useful with his hands instead of falling asleep or something. Sybil had encouraged him, after he’d confessed to her that his mum had taught him how when he’d been small and he’d always wanted to take it up again. The bag also held the invitation to Maurice and Jacobs’ wedding, which would be next month.

His office being neat and having both this new historical book to read as well as his knitting supplies meant that he could rely on either his hands being busy or alternatively his mind being occupied by reading about Ankh-Morpork history (or, as stealthily as possible about romance on the high seas). He no longer had long periods of time where there was nothing to think of but lines in those letters, keeping him awake at night.

Vimes closed his bag, pleased that the scarf he’d been working on was already half-way done. The day had flown by and now night was falling. It seemed that these days, most of his days were dark ones.

Ah well, spring would be here soon.

 

When he looked up, he saw that Moist von Lipwig was approaching him, one hand on his winged hat and another holding a mailbag. Engineers and carpenters and politicians were hurrying out of the Oblong Office, a steady stream of suits and dresses moving towards the stairs.

“Here you go,” Lipwig said, handing over two letters. One of them had the familiar black wax seal and the other was from Lady Sybil. “That machine downstairs made the whole building shake at four in the morning before it spat this one out.”

Lipwig pointed at the letter from Vetinari, stepping back away from it as if he was avoiding a bomb. Then he spun on his heel and was gone without so much as a farewell.

Vimes tore open the one from Sybil first, reading of Young Sam’s adventures wandering all over beaches and hiking with Sybil as well as about the dragons Sybil had been researching on this journey.

He tore the other one open too, ripping the paper so hard that Drumknott, carrying a pot of coffee from the office halted in his step.

Better to get this over with instead of postponing it until he no longer could, feeling bleak and hopeless about its contents.

The paper shook in his hands.

“Oh thank gods,” Vimes breathed as the words leapt out at him. He read the letter as fast as he could and then word by word, like stringing together a pearl necklace until the meaning of them all in context was crystal clear.

It was like being filled with light.

They’d found the other Vetinari, safe and sound. And now he was back home in Ankh-Morpork, making bad puns and going on walks with his dog. This letter was addressed to the other Vimes, thanking him for his part in the rescue and asking him to drop by this afternoon. This too, was a love letter. There was enough warmth in the way it was written and so many instances of ‘my dear Commander’ that Vimes found himself smiling.

When he looked up, the anteroom was empty.

Vimes stuffed the letter into his bag and rummaged a bit before he found his naval romance book again. Sure, they were adventure stories too, with lots of swashbuckling and cannons and sea monsters. But he’d spent most of his life hoping for two specific people to at least kiss, darn it.

 Where had he left off? Oh yes. The sloop’s physician knocked a cup out of old Captain’s hands because it had been laced with poison…

 

“Ah Commander,” said a familiar voice.

“Hm?” Vimes said, immersed in a description of the physician insisting that he had to make sure that the captain had not ingested any poison or spilled any on himself. The neckcloth had fallen to the floor in a heap and soon both men were breathing hard-

“I see that you’ve been enjoying your book,” Lord Vetinari said. “It must be very engaging.”

Vimes slammed it shut. Then he looked at the window, debating if he should open it, throw the book outside and retrieave it later on. No, that would not do. Maybe a gardener would find it, or a maid, or Mr. Fusspot. In any case, he needed it back. He’d waited too long for this relationship to get to this point to spend any time buying a new copy of the book, instead of devouring the rest of it.

Vimes shoved the book inside his bag again, nearly stabbing himself on his own knitting needles.

“Yes, sir,” Vimes said, automatically. He prepared himself to school his expression into his usual talking-to-Vetinari mask, but there was something about the way Vetinari shifted his weight from one foot to another that made him look up.

The Patrician’s face was even paler than usual and he was gipping his cane so tightly that his knuckles were white. The man moved towards his desk, leaning on that too as his foot tried to betray him by giving out beneath him.

Before Vimes could stop himself, he’d taken Lord Vetinari’s arm to steady him.

“I think I need to sit down,” Vetinari said as he leaned on Vimes.

Vetinari’s collar was unbuttoned, his cravat gone.

Vimes swallowed and tried not to bask in how close Vetinari was to him. He could live on this moment for weeks, darn it.

Lord Vetinari was smiling, even if it was just a tiny flickering one.

“Not in that chair,” Vimes said, glaring at the chair behind Vetinari’s desk. “Something softer than that.”

 The he’d led him into Vetinari’s own quarters. The furniture was worn but built to last decades, so Vimes found himself moving towards the soft sofa.

“A long day, then?” Vimes asked as he selected a cigar from his case.

“Indeed,” Vetinari said, eying Vimes in an odd manner as he lit his cigar.

“I asked the cook to make us something since we’d stay up for a while,” Lord Vetinari said, sitting down on the sofa with a small sigh. He left his cane leaning against the armrest, closing his eyes.

The coffee was in proper mugs, the sort that you could actually grip without worrying that they’d disintegrate.

And then Vimes saw the dessert.

 

It was his mother’s Distressed Pudding, in two glass bowls with a delicate rose petal design.

He could recognize it by sight, after all those years. It didn’t have the raisins or soggy bread that he’d seen in other variations and in some inns.

It was just rice pudding, really. But she used to get some almond scraps and a half-cup of cream from old Mrs. Clarke next door, who worked at in the Unseen University’s kitchens. Some nights, when he’d come home from a shift, there would be a bowl of Distressed Pudding on that little table crammed into the kitchen. His mum would whip the cream and add the almonds. Sometimes there would be mixed berry jam on top or a buttery crust on the bottom made out of broken biscuits.

And now it was here, right in front of him.

The cook had poured blueberry mush over the pudding too.

Lord Vetinari was smiling.

“Might I have one of those?” Vetinari asked, gesturing at Vimes’s cigar. “I’m told it’s a relaxing habit.”

Vimes stared.

“Sure,” he said, opening his silver case. Then he lit the cigar, leaning so close to the Patrician that their foreheads brushed.

“I haven’t smoked since I was a student in the Guild,” Vetinari remarked, blowing out smoke.

“That makes me feel old,” Vimes said, who had bought his first packet after a horrible night shift as Constable.

“If you are old, then I am too.” Vetinari said, leaning back.

“You are in your bloody prime,”  Vimes shot back. “The city is thriving, no one has come close to killing you in years now.”

Lord Veitnari leveled him with a look that said: “So are you.”

Vimes sipped his coffee to try to hide how his cheeks burned. It didn’t work.

“If anyone would try, you’d take it as a personal insult and hunt them down,” Vetinari said, shrugging. “Half the Disc knows that.”

“They also know that you are an Assassin,” Vimes said, sipping his coffee and tasting it properly this time It was burning hot and someone had sensibly added at least half a bowl of sugar to it.

Lord Vetinari stubbed out his cigar on the crystal ashtray, something Vimes was only half-aware of as he inhaled his pudding.

When Vimes came back to himself, having scraped the last of the blueberry mush and pudding off the sides of the bowl, there was a pile of letters on the table in front of him.

They were all addressed to Lord Vetinari, most of them with the Watch wax seal on the back or even his own coat of arms.

 

“You got them too?” Vimes asked, because he had to.

“Yes,” Vetinari said, a statement of a fact.

They could have burned them, sworn to never speak about their existence again. They could have left, half-full cups still steaming on the table.

Instead they moved closer to each other, as carefully as if the world would shatter beneath them if they did not.

“Alright?” Vetinari asked, his hand delicately cupping Vimes’s jaw.

Vimes could see the faint traces of makeup covering the bags under Vetinari’s eyes, every silver hair rebelling against the black hair dye and see a smattering of glitter just below his unbuttoned collar.

Vimes nodded, leaning in as Lord Vetinari kissed him. It was soft and experimental, hands clutching lapels as Vetinari adjusted his bad leg so that it would not be in the way.

They agreed to move to the bedroom, being men who knew exactly how this would end. After all, they had spent enough time thinking about it over the years.

The armor ended up being unbuckled and thrown on the floor with surprising force.

Lord Vetinari did not wear much at all underneath his robes, or at least not the proper suit Vimes had always assumed was there. Well, perhaps he did wear that some days.

He had plenty of time to find out.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments encouraged :D


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